


Catch the Wind

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Series: A Legion of Their Own [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abuse, Anal, Angst, Bondage, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Hate Sex, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Object Insertion, Pain, Public Sex, Racism, Rape With Object, Skyrim Kink Meme, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4114818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fasendil expected to be dragged to Windhelm for the usual public, prolonged execution that awaited every Legionnaire unlucky enough to survive a Stormcloak attack. He could have even predicted the zealous rebels would start the torture early. He never dreamed they would take up Thalmor tactics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> De-anoning from the kink meme. OP asked for Fasendil as the target of war crimes.
> 
> An AU of an AU, so to speak. None of this actually happens in the main "A Legion of Their Own" story; it's a what-if. Also, I'm a terrible person.
> 
> (Posting from tablet, apologies for any weirdness)

At least Hadvar wasn't there.

That was the only comfort as Fasendil was shoved to his knees, head spinning from the sharp blow to his temple. His sword was across the camp, his bow still in the tent, and the rapidly blossoming headache made it difficult to concentrate on what reserves of magic he had. His hands twitched as he tried, blinking through the blood streaming down his face, and the Stormcloak behind him kicked him in the back.

He collapsed, narrowly avoiding cutting his cheek open on a rock. A boot pressed between his shoulder blades.

"Empire's really sucking Thalmor cock, to make one a commander," came a thick Nordic voice from somewhere above, and the chorus of snickers that followed signaled the speaker was their leader.

Fasendil didn't bother protesting. He knew they wouldn't be convinced, and would probably just make them draw out his inevitable death.

"The High King's going to be pleased with this find, I bet." As if Fasendil were an object. "Doesn't mean we can't have some fun before we cart them off, though."

Fasendil stiffened, slowly trying to raise his head. The boot pressed warningly, then relented. The Stormcloak commander must have given a signal. Not daring to hope yet, the Legate sat up, shifting to his knees and glancing around. He was surrounded, as he had expected. Hard faces in blue uniforms everywhere. _Surely I'm not the only one still alive?_ Finally he peered around the commander's legs and found the remains of his camp.

Two. Just two left alive, the others all being dragged off into a pile for Gods-knew-what, pockets rifled through.

He closed his eyes against the grief that bubbled up in his chest. He'd lost subordinates before, but never so many, so ruthlessly. And never so many that he could genuinely call _friend_.

When he opened his eyes again, as composed as he was going to be, the Stormcloak commander had shifted, giving him an unobstructed view of the two scouts left alive. The only survivors. _And Hadvar,_ he reminded himself, clinging to that comfort. The scouts were huddled together as much as they could be while bound, miserable, and both of them were looking at him as if he was the only one who could save them.

"Bah, looks like the knife-ear's a little sentimental," scoffed the Stormcloak commander, and Fasendil threw him a dirty look. The man was broad, with blond hair, thick but well-trimmed beard, and the typical bear getup of the Stormcloak command. He was grinning.

A cold, heavy knot of fear settled in Fasendil's stomach. "Let them go, you whoreson. I'm the one you want, aren't I?" It was a gamble, he knew, but he was dead anyway. It was just a matter of how much torture they decided to inflict on him before he died. And if his palms were sweating at the thought, at least he knew his face was schooled.

"Yes, yes you are. Doesn't mean I won't take what falls into my lap, by Talos."

The oath was obviously a jab at him, but Fasendil was indifferent on the subject. When he failed to react with outrage or whatever was expected, the commander scowled.

That was all the warning he got before his captor kicked him in the face.

Fasendil fell back with a cry, hands flying up to his nose. He could barely feel it under the hot gushes of blood, but through the haze of pain he reacted automatically with the only spell he knew that did not require immense concentration.

When the golden light shone around his hands, the Stormcloaks erupted in a flurry of shouting and movement. Someone pried his hands away from his face, leaving his nose half-healed, and quickly pulled him up to tie them behind his back. As soon as the healing spell faded and his hands were secure, they were all around him, kicks and the occasional punch — though he could barely tell the difference — flying out to batter his already-abused body. They avoided his heavy chestplate, instead focusing on his legs, stomach, shoulders, and head.

Through the grunts of his tormentors and his own pained whimpers as he tried in vain to curl into a ball, the shocked cries of his scouts were loudest.

A kick hit the already-closed but still tender wound on his temple, and stars exploded under his eyelids.

He plunged into darkness.

—

"Five... girl... heal him... don't... play with _you_ , instead."

Fasendil regained consciousness dearly wishing he had died. His entire body was one big ache, even his chest. The familiar weight of his plate armor was gone, a chill raising goosebumps on his bare arms. He was laying on his side, curled up like a child. Gentle but insistent hands were tugging at his wrists, undoing the rope that bit into his tender flesh.

He cracked one eye open, but the other refused to budge, stuck shut with dried blood from his temple. His surroundings were blurry, but after a moment of blinking he recognized a blue sky and the cliff face his camp had been nestled up against. How long had he been out?

"Legate?"

The voice was soft, concerned, but Fasendil drew in a sharp breath anyway, and nearly passed out from the stabbing sensation in his lungs as he did. He tried to find the source of the voice, and let out a much gentler and less painful sigh of relief when Auxiliary Myrine's worried face came into view. She was covered in dirt, which almost managed to mask the bruise forming on her cheek.

Fasendil's gut clenched with outrage — Myrine was the least aggressive person he knew, which was why she had never gotten further up than a scout. She certainly hadn't done anything to warrant such violence. _Fucking bastards,_ he growled in his own head. He would kill them all if he ever got out of here.

"Myrine," he croaked, throat itchy. He reached for his magicka to heal her, himself, to run a final sacrificial gambit with fire blazing from his palms, but stopped when he ran up against a wall in his own mind.

Myrine shook her head. "They fed you a magicka poison. I couldn't stop them." She turned her face away, reaching to her side where a tiny bottle sat. She uncorked it and held it to Fasendil's lips. "I'm so sorry, Legate."

The Altmer took a sip, feeling dizzy as the healing potion drew partly on his own, flagging energy to knit his worst injuries together. Potions, unlike spells, were not in the least bit soothing or pleasurable. Spells relied solely on the caster's own magicka, but potions used the body's natural healing process in addition to whatever properties the ingredients had. The result was itching and fatigue.

At least when it was over he didn't ache quite so much. The bottle was so tiny it couldn't get to all his injuries, just the one on his temple and his chest and a sprained ankle he hadn't even realized he had.

Myrine hesitated for a moment before reaching for a squat jar and bandages. When she opened the jar he recognized the pungent smell as the very salve his healers had kept in reserve. Myrine began applying the substance to the worst bruises along her Legate's upper arm, wincing apologetically when Fasendil sucked in another sharp breath. Mara's mercy, the stuff was _cold_ and tingled unpleasantly the longer it was on his skin. But he appreciated her gentle fingers and, better, her lack of comment as she moved to salve every wound she could reach.

She had just finished bandaging his exposed ear, where a kick had broken the delicate skin, when stomping footsteps alerted him to the Stormcloak commander's approach.

"Your time is up," he barked when he stood over them.

Myrine didn't meet his eye as she nodded, patting Fasendil's shoulder awkwardly before making to gather up the supplies.

"Move it!" The commander grabbed Myrine by the arm, hauling her up — the supplies scattered everywhere — and passing her off to another Stormcloak. As she was marched away, Myrine looked back, fear etched into her round face.

Fasendil had no reassurances to give her.

The commander stood over him for a few moments, watching him with an unreadable expression. Fasendil met his eye warily and kept it, even when the position become uncomfortable for his neck. So locked were they in their staring match that Fasendil didn't sense the quiet-footed Stormcloak coming up from behind until his hands were grabbed again and tied, even tighter than before, behind his back.

"Oh, we'll have fun with you," the lead Stormcloak said.

The minion behind Fasendil dragged him up. Through vision blurred by dizziness, Fasendil saw a small group of Stormcloaks and his scouts at one of two carts waiting nearby. Auxiliary Ludo was shaking; he had only been a soldier for a few months, since his last birthday, and the boy had never seen more than a skirmish. Myrine, already loaded in the back of the cart like a sack of grain, was trying to get him to go without a fight.

As Fasendil watched, supported by the underling, Ludo broke away from his captors. He got one step toward the road before the nearest Stormcloak grabbed him and, with a sharp blow of a sword-hilt to his head, knocked him out. He was thrown, limp and bleeding, beside Myrine, who curled herself over him protectively as the splinter group climbed into the back as well. The cart lurched away, and a voice in the back of Fasendil's mind, the voice that had been his doomsayer ever since the Night of Green Fire, whispered, _you'll never see them again. You are all alone._

Except he wasn't alone, and that was the problem. He was surrounded by his enemies, most of whom were in the process of dismantling his camp. The wooden furniture, supports and barricades were being thrown in a pile, the cloth itself in another, and the symbol of the Imperial dragon from the front of his Legate's tent was stomped and twisted on the ground. Everything else — the supplies, the bedrolls, the quartermaster's makeshift forge — was being packed up for transport.

A hand grabbed his chin, turning him to face the commander again, as the other Stormcloak relaxed his grip, allowing Fasendil to get halfway to his knees — he was still so _weak!_ — before holding him in a kind of limbo, legs at an angle to the ground.

"Once we're done, return him here," the commander said. Fasendil blinked, as the other man's eyes had never left him, but then his manhandler said, "Yes, Stormblade."

The commander nodded and turned away, leaving the soldier to drag Fasendil toward his own tent, the only one that had not been dismantled yet. The nameless man turned him around — and Fasendil finally saw his face, not that it made a difference — to set his spine against the front pole where the symbol had once been. It lay not far away, and Fasendil watched the poor, broken thing as his arms were wrenched back around the pole, leaving him circling it from behind, so that he could sit or stand with some effort. He chose to sit. His guard shuffled about behind him, and Fasendil ignored him, thinking himself ignored, until a tin cup — the very one that had been on his nightstand — pressed against his mouth and water touched his lips. Blessed, blessed water. He hadn't realized how parched he was until he was gulping it down. The Stormcloak pulled back slightly, and Fasendil leaned forward, trying to capture the rim again.

"Easy now, you'll get sick." He didn't sound concerned, merely factual. He held the cup out of reach for a moment, as Fasendil panted, then it came back again. This pattern continued twice more before the cup was drained, then the Stormcloak left his sight. He heard the creaking of a chair behind him, then silence.

In that silence, Fasendil did feel sick. He had nearly succumbed there, turned into a needy, desperate prisoner, and from what? A beating and a little dehydration. He had endured worse in his life, and if he had anything to say about it he would live to tempt worse again.

He leaned back against the pole and watched the rebel bastards destroy his camp. It didn't matter; they would never destroy _him _.__

—

Fasendil thought he had just closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again the sun indicated late afternoon and the camp was merely a bare spot on the ground. His tent was the only one standing. Indeed, it was the only sign Imperials had ever occupied the area in number at all. The symbol was gone, presumably thrown into the same fire that had created a pile of ashes on the ground as wide as he was tall. Whatever the Stormcloaks had decided to take was loaded onto a cart, with an obvious open spot amid the items for him to sit.

And the Stormcloak force, some fifteen men and women, was gathered in the center of what was once the camp, all staring at him.

Fasendil's arms suddenly came loose, and he had just enough time to realize the untying was what had woken him up before his guard had him by the biceps again, dragging him the short distance to the crowd before tossing him at the feet of the man called Stormblade.

The Altmer rose to his knees, stiff and sore from, well, everything. Stormblade regarded him for a long moment — he did that a lot — then barked, without moving his eyes, "it's time!"

Before Fasendil could wonder what it was time for, two other Stormcloaks had him by the limbs, one binding his forearms parallel to each other with long strips of bandages and the other holding his legs down. _Another beating, probably._

But it was far worse than that. Once his arms were immobile, the first Stormcloak moved down to his legs as well. When his knees were pried apart, only then did Fasendil truly struggle. He was half-aware that he was repeating "no" and "don't" and even "please" in his panic, but he had never thought they would do _this_. Only the Thalmor did _this._

More Stormcloaks came to pin him down, and help place what felt like a long piece of wood — probably a tent support before — against the backs of his knees. Fasendil had only heard of the device this was to imitate, never used one himself, and he was vaguely glad that he had never subjected a lover to this discomfort as one knee was bound, then the other pushed as far as it would go, until his hip was nearly dislocated, and tied fast to the other end of the pole.

Spread, helpless, and growing faint from his fear, Fasendil felt very far from the powerful Legate he was supposed to be.

Stormblade stepped in until all Fasendil could see was his boots. He looked up, trying to distract himself from his position, and drew in a sharp, stabbing breath when he saw the club in the rebel's hands. It was rounded on one end but otherwise uniform in circumference from where the Nord held it to where he tapped it slowly and deliberately on his other palm. It was wide, wider than any cock, and he shuddered. He knew what it was for.

The Stormcloak leader smiled without mirth, looking Fasendil squarely in the eye as he motioned to one of his men. He accepted the bottle that was passed to him, and Fasendil wasn't sure whether to be relieved or resigned when he saw that it was his own lube, straight out of his own dresser.

Relieved, because being fucked by that thing without lube would kill him.

Resigned, because the sadists would doubtlessly make him work for it.

His dark prediction came true. Stormblade hunkered down in front of him, holding the instruments of torture out like a shopkeeper displaying his wares. Or maybe he was mocking Fasendil's bound state. "So, blackcoat—" Fasendil could have rolled his eyes at the epithet, as he had called actual Thalmor worse, "—here's the deal. This is going in your arse." He paused to let the snickers from the crowd die down. "And this could save your miserable life, but as you have no doubt guessed, I'm not giving it to you for free."

Fasendil had expected him to continue, to state his undoubtedly humiliating demand outright, but when the silence had stretched too long, he ground out the prompt. "What do you want?" It sounded like a death knell, to him.

Stormblade made it sound simple. "Pray to Talos."

Fasendil closed his eyes to keep them from rolling skyward. Hopefully the Stormcloaks would take the pained expression he knew he was displaying as reluctance; if they found out he was bemoaning their status as one-trick guar, he didn't want to know what would happen. Well, this was one test he would pass with ease if it meant he wouldn't die that way.

He took a breath, thinking about how he phrased appeals to Stendarr. His head tilted up of its own accord, eyes still closed against the afternoon sun and the other man's face.

"Talos, Man-God, Dragon of the North, to thee I pray and give praise. Guide my thought and deed, walk beside me in my trials, and steady my sword-arm in my triumphs. As you led your Empire to glory, so may we turn to you again in adversity, standing united again. Talos, Ysmir, may your reign be everlasting."

Fasendil cracked open his eyes, feeling strangely buoyant. Stormblade was staring at him again, mouth twitching in what might have been disgust or denial or any number of emotions.

The Legate hadn't intended to include the Empire in his impromptu prayer, and he hoped it wouldn't cost him. No jab was worth such a death. He had always thought he would be the one hovering over Hadvar's bedside after a long and happy life together: the Nord white-haired and translucent-skinned, brittle-boned and milky-eyed in the way of humans just before their bodies fail entirely. It had happened before. He had been sure it would happen again. Perhaps he was a fool to believe them both immune to early ends.

"Careful, elf," Stormblade said quietly, rocking back on his heels to pass off the club and lube to some minion. He rested one arm on a knee while the other reached out and grasped Fasendil's chin, keeping the Legate from looking behind as the other Stormcloaks trod around them.

Hands grasped at the bottom of Fasendil's under-leathers, making every muscle in his body tense painfully. The skirt was flipped up and then — _no, no_ chanted Fasendil in his head, the fear returning even sharper than before — warm hands tugged his loincloth down, exposing him to the cooling air and the eyes of the surrounding strangers.

And still, Stormblade watched him. Watched him even as he held up a hand and dropped it.

Immediately, the freezing, slick end of the club prodded at his entrance.

Fasendil struggled with his fear: the instinct that made him clamp down wouldn't do him any favors, but it was difficult to fight it with logic alone. He managed to relax a fraction, but it would be better to be boneless. Maybe if he passed out—

His thoughts, however fragmented, scattered entirely when the club pressed harder, pushing against that ring of muscle that had never lost its tightness in all his years. It was unyielding and cold and so unlike a cock that it made Fasendil dizzy to think it was _inside_ him. It burned like ice, but without the numbness that he desperately needed. On and on it slid in, while Fasendil gasped and choked on his screams and Stormblade watched him with a faint smile but dead eyes.

Blackness crept into the corners of Fasendil's vision, but he could no longer register anything but the agony lancing up his back. Not the rocks digging into his knees, not the tears spilling from his eyes and wetting Stormblade's hands where the rebel still held his chin, not the blood trickling down his legs to stain the pole holding him wide. None of this entered Fasendil's mind, for the pain bloomed to encompass his entire being.

When the darkness spread and the last pinprick of color blinked out of sight, Fasendil was grateful.

—

The journey by cart took weeks, crossing the Treva River just before passing a farm as the family ran inside and barred the doors, then up into Eastmarch, going by way of Kynesgrove to avoid getting too close to the skirmishes on the Whiterun border.

Stormblade and his troop talked openly in Fasendil's earshot about their route. Of course, he was usually in too much pain to hear them properly past his own staccato heartbeat, even during the day when everyone else was too busy marching to bother him. Though given enough water and cold gruel to avoid death, and a rough blanket that was once the side of a tent to keep the drizzle off, he wasn't healed enough to ease the constant ache in his lower spine and — now — his jaw.

They continued to abuse him almost all the way to Windhelm. At first it was just the club, then one of the women in the party got the idea to ride his face while he was torn apart. After that the strange line was crossed and they swarmed him every night, ganging up on the helpless Legate for their perverse pleasure. Of the group, only two never touched him sexually: a lad so young his voice still cracked and Stormblade himself. Even the three women, one of whom was likely a lesbian or at least preferred her own sex, all took their turns.

Fasendil retreated into himself, replaying memories of more innocent — if not happier — times over the mist in his eyes to replace the pain from the rape with pain from the knowledge that those memories were just that: memories, intangible and prone to the pitfalls of imperfect recollection. In time, they would disappear entirely.

He rode in the cart, curled in on himself, staring at the sky. He wondered at times, when the present intruded on the past, if a dragon would descend from the clouds at any moment. He heard distant roars and felt the heat of its breath as real as the inferno engulfing Sentinel's refugee district a century and a half before, though somehow he was closer to the flames than he had ever been in reality. The two, waking nightmare and false memory, blended together, and it didn't matter that he couldn't tell them apart.

He heard the splash a fraction of a second before the chilly water hit him. He sputtered, sitting up. He was dripping wet, quickly freezing, and lucid for the first time in how long he didn't know.

"Up, knife-ear. You've been pampered for far too long," barked Stormblade, standing at the back of the cart with another soldier. Fasendil recognized this latter one as the most sadistic of the lot, even ahead of Stormblade — the one who, early on, had suggested castration before his commander rejected the idea. He was holding a bucket and grinning fiercely, eyes raking Fasendil's form like one might appraise a street-whore.

Fasendil shivered and looked around. Snow blanketed the ground, though it was not falling at that moment, almost hiding the well-worn road and the glimmer of lights through the trees off to his left. A settlement? He couldn't see the sun, as overcast as it was, but behind Stormblade the landscape stretched away into bare ground, dotted with pools and vents from which steam curled into the air, and crags of stone rose into small plateaus in-between. Off in the far distance was the silhouette of a hill against blue sky, unremarkable but for the lowlands around it. He heard a river rushing to his right, while the road wound away to the left, branching off at one point toward the village.

All this he took in, making an educated guess as to where he was. Windhelm wasn't far, perhaps a two-hour march to the north.

Just about end of the line.

At a gesture from Stormblade, Sadist lunged forward and grabbed Fasendil, dragging him down from the cart and toward the river. The Altmer couldn't get his long legs under him, and the sloping ground down to the riverbank was littered with sharp needles blown from the nearby pines, as well as snow that burned like fire at the cuts already on his legs from some previous abuse he couldn't then recall.

Sadist stopped at the edge of the river, where a fallen log had created a somewhat-still pool — a bath. For a Nord, perhaps, as Fasendil found out as Sadist swung him around and let go.

Fasendil was a strong swimmer, but that was in the Abecean Sea and the Strid River. He had once dove Lake Rumare (and had a scar from a slaughterfish on the back of his calf for his trouble) in Evening Star, and though at the time he was sure that would be the coldest water he would ever endure, the White River was colder by far. It stole the breath from his lungs, sent his head spinning immediately, and attached leaden weights to his limbs. He flailed, managing to surface into the gray light, but the rocks that made up the bottom shifted under his feet and he plunged down again mid-breath.

Strong hands pulled him out, lying him on his stomach and smacking him squarely between the shoulder blades, though he was already coughing and needed no help expelling the freezing water from his lungs. The bank was muddy beneath his bare skin, making him even dirtier than he had been before his forced dip. "Useless!" Sadist snarled, turning him over. Fasendil was quickly growing numb, only half-aware that he was trembling violently and the air was turning the water on his skin to thin sheets of ice. His hair was nearly a frozen mass.

Sadist leaned away, out of Fasendil's range of sight, but he didn't turn his head to chase him. Moments later the young boy, the one who had never so much as looked at him much less with lust, appeared, leaning over the Legate. His eyebrows were furrowed, and even as Fasendil watched with resignation — to live, to die, it didn't matter — those eyebrows pulled tighter.

"Blue lips," the boy murmured, and shortly after Fasendil found himself lying by the fire, wrapped in so many blankets he couldn't even shiver properly. Or breathe, but at least he was getting warmer and, judging by the stabbing sensations in his toes and balls, unlikely to lose anything to frostbite just yet.

"I didn't tell you to kill him."

On the other side of the fire, Stormblade was pacing back and forth. Fasendil could just see his profile beyond the flames, if he strained his eyes. The commander had a quiet rage, getting smaller in both sight and sound: he had crossed his arms, keeping his distance from Sadist and lowering his voice. But his movements betrayed him, and beneath the calm sea of his voice laid a riptide of concentrated fury. Fasendil could tell because he had the same trait, though few things could provoke it.

Sadist did not protest, accepting the rebuke even quieter than Stormblade had given it, and Fasendil didn't see him again.

—

An hour later Fasendil was back in the cart, feeling somewhere in the vicinity of clean for the first time in weeks. Stormblade was unwilling to risk another dip in the river, so he grudgingly gave the Legate a pail of fire-warmed water and a rag, allowing him to try swiping at the worst of the dirt staining his golden skin. It didn't work, not entirely, but then someone suggested cutting off his hair.

Having never been attached to his hair any more than he had to be, Fasendil was actually grateful that it was gone. The journey was hard on it, throwing twigs and bugs at him, but it was the crust from countless ejaculations — from countless _rapes_ — soiling it that made its sudden absence a great boon. The boy had turned out to be a healer of some skill, as well, managing to brew a salve that eased the lingering pain in his ravaged ass. Though Fasendil had to apply it himself while the Stormcloaks snickered around him, he stamped down on his shame. It didn't matter anymore, but somehow the tattered remnants of his pride prevented him from displaying emotion over the inevitable as opposed to fighting it.

Fed, watered and somewhat healed. He still couldn't run, couldn't escape, but at least he could walk into the pit of Oblivion, not crawl.

The cart rolled to a stop again. Fasendil had been staring down at his hands, but at the jolt he looked up, finding himself by a large stable filled with many shaggy-maned horses of pure Skyrim stock. The Stormcloaks started unloading the cart while Stormblade stood nearby with an Altmer who, judging by her clothes, either owned or worked at the stables. She was wringing her hands, then checking herself only to start fidgeting again moments later. Fasendil couldn't hear a word of their conversation, but she kept glancing toward the cart and he knew he must be quite the spectacle.

At least he wasn't naked anymore, though the ragged clothes meant he might as well have been. They offered no protection against the cold.

Stormblade broke away, shoving his horse's reins at the startled girl, and shouldered his way through his men. He reached an arm out toward Fasendil, but after a tense few seconds in which he was not grabbed, the Legate realized the rebel was, however mockingly, offering to help him off the cart.

He gripped the proffered hand loosely, using his own power to rise and step down. He swayed a little once on the ground, but Stormblade made no move to steady him. Fasendil tried not to tighten his hold and dropped it entirely as soon as he was sure he would not fall on his ass. That would be uncomfortable. He also allowed Stormblade to bind his hands, didn't even protest the leash leading from them or yet another dose of magicka poison going down his throat.

And if he saw the faintest glimmer of respect in Stormblade's eyes, well, he didn't comment on _that_ either.

The ancient stones quickly numbed his feet through the footwraps on the long march to the gates proper. Soldiers patrolled the walled walkway on either side, lending a feeling of claustrophobia that was only intensified once they were inside. The gate guards saluted Stormblade as he approached, Fasendil trailing after with the lead rope slack between them. He could feel their hidden eyes on him as he shuffled past.

Despite the lack of snowfall, which Stormblade had mentioned offhandedly as unusual, the unwelcoming streets were deserted of all but a guard or two. Off to the left, he could faintly hear the clamor of a marketplace, muffled by thick stone walls. Ahead, an inn, a candle burning in the window even though it was the middle of the day.

Fasendil observed the eerie scene from the corners of his eyes, keeping his face turned straight ahead as Stormblade strode on as if unaffected by the muted nature of such a big city.

The Palace of the Kings loomed over Windhelm like a sheer cliff over the ocean, lights flickering in the hundreds of notched windows like wisps. The face of the Palace was darker than the city walls, as if it was newer, but Fasendil knew the opposite was true.

If the purpose of it was to intimidate, it worked.

The guards outside the Palace also knew Stormblade, standing at attention when he came near, but they did not move from position.

"Jarl Ulfric receiving visitors?"

"Not at the moment, Stormblade, but he may see you anyway." She opened her door, stepping aside once she was in to usher them into the belly of the beast.

Ulfric's home was just as cold inside as it was outside. The main hall was huge, made even bigger by the lack of decoration; but for the banners of the Eastmarch bear on either side of the empty throne at the far end of the hall, there was nothing extraneous in the place at all. No food on the long table, just the silverware, arranged neatly, and the chairs tucked in around the length. The place gave Fasendil the chills in more ways than one. This was not a home for anyone, but a carefully constructed presentation.

The guard strode down the hall to a side door, disappearing through it.

Stormblade stayed where he was, though he did turn to examine Fasendil with a critical eye. The Legate stared back, keeping his face blank but his eyes hard. Stormblade seemed satisfied with whatever he saw, finally glancing back toward the throne just as the guard returned.

"The Jarl will receive you in just a moment," she said, saluting, before stepping around them. The door creaked closed again behind her.

"Come on, then." Stormblade tugged at the lead, pulling it taut before Fasendil could move, and he stumbled over his own still-numb feet to catch up, narrowly avoiding a faceplant.

They stopped in front of the throne, and Fasendil could hear voices growing louder from the side room.

"...friend. Tell me, Galmar, why do you fight for me?" A rich, deep baritone that sent a bolt like electricity lancing up Fasendil's spine became clear first.

Suddenly, Stormblade yanked him forward again, and this time he did fall, barely catching himself on his forearms. Stormblade grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back into an uncomfortable kneel before he could rise, the other arm snaking around his neck to press a dagger to his throat.

"I'll die before elves dictate the fates of men." A rougher, less cultured voice. Galmar Stone-Fist, General and housecarl, Fasendil remembered from the debriefing after his assignment to Skyrim, and from the intelligence reports that said he often moved personally between camps.

Footsteps echoed on the corridor between the rooms, but Fasendil couldn't see from his position. Not without slicing his neck open on the blade.

"Are we not one in—?"

Ulfric — for it must have been Ulfric, no other man's voice could have held that kind of power away from High Hrothgar — spoke over his housecarl with the fervor of a priest giving a sermon. "I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces."

The Jarl strode into the hall, voice echoing unnaturally in the space. He ignored Stormblade and Fasendil, but the Legate knew it was an elaborate act. Like a stage play. "I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves!" He stepped up the dais, standing in front of the throne where a strategic shaft of light shone on his upturned face. "I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing. I fight..."

As the Jarl lowered himself onto the throne with a weary affectation, Fasendil had to resist the urge to clap slowly. That wouldn't end well.

"...because I must." He covered his face with a hand, sighing heavily and with finality.

_Divines, what a ham_ , Fasendil thought.

Galmar, of course, didn't seem to get the message. "Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric—"

"Stormblade?" Ulfric pretended to be surprised to uncover his eyes and see them there. "Ah, yes. Who is this you've brought me?" He eyed Fasendil like a sabre cat deciding whether a deer is worth the trouble when it has already caught one.

"My Jarl, we've eliminated another Imperial camp. This is their leader. A Thalmor plant if I ever saw one."

Fasendil felt his lips twist down, but he didn't bother speaking. Ulfric was unlikely to listen, much less change his mind from what he had already decided was set in stone.

"I have brought him here to face your merc—"

"He's not a Thalmor." Ulfric's voice boomed out, startling Fasendil. Stormblade's hand twitched, painting a thin red line on the Legate's throat. "And put that away. He's not going anywhere."

Stormblade withdrew, allowing Fasendil to shift into a slightly less agonizing position for his knees. "My Jarl?"

"What is your name?" Ulfric demanded, ignoring the interruption.

There wasn't any point to the exchange, but he answered anyway. His voice was creaky with disuse — other than the screamed pleas, the last he had spoken was that prayer — and his tone dull and dutiful. "Fasendil, Legate of the Imperial Legion assigned to the Rift."

"The Rift? Ulfric, isn't that where those others came from last week?" Galmar asked, making Fasendil's ears perk up.

Stormblade spoke when the Jarl made no indication he was going to. "Two scouts survived the attack, yes. We sent them ahead."

Fasendil felt Ulfric's sharp eyes boring into him, but no matter how hard he tried to school himself into disinterest he couldn't control himself entirely. It was frustrating, and unlike him, but the Jarl's gaze stripped the flesh from his bones and prodded at the delicate organs underneath. And when he spoke, it was like a headsman's axe coming down.

"They were executed this morning."

The breath whooshed from Fasendil's lungs, the sound unheard through the roaring in his ears. _Executed. Dead_.

Myrine, who couldn't hurt a mudcrab. Ludo, an unblooded child.

"Take him below. We'll see if the Emperor wants him back."

Fasendil let himself be dragged away, down into the depths of the Palace, where water dripped and the cold crept into the bones. He curled up in the corner of the cell they put him in, displacing a rat, who squeaked at him before disappearing through the bars and out of sight. It didn't matter. He was in Windhelm, the belly of the beast, and even if the Legion did win he would be dead by then. They didn't do prisoner exchanges or ransoms.

It was over.

End of the line.

**Author's Note:**

> Fin! Or not. I'm writing a sequel/fix-it for those who like a little comfort/hope with their hurt/angst. I also have the bonus to take care of, and ~other things~. Ohoho


End file.
